


the incautious reading of poetry

by Ancalime



Category: Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancalime/pseuds/Ancalime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for the Melancholy Curate and his Enigmatic Sister. Happy Yuletide!</p>
            </blockquote>





	the incautious reading of poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RevMarsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevMarsh/gifts).



The air clasped me close, sticky and clammy and gelatinous against my skin in the chill of early spring. It was too mild for snow, not yet warm enough for summer's iced puffballs, and everything made me feel out-of-sorts, displaced and unsettled. Though to be fair, the weather alone did not cause my ill spirits -- the second anniversary of my arrival in Fallen London grew close, and with it my lack of progress in the pursuit of Scathewick grew ever heavier a burden on my shoulders.

Not all was gloom and despair; an unexpected lantern in the Neath's darkness shone in the form of my developing relationship with the Curate and his sister, Agnes. A melancholy man, to be sure -- indeed, my attention lingered on him at first when I attended a church service out of a particular upswelling of guilt and desire for penitence. Something about dealing with the Brass Embassy always left me feeling cold, despite their gleaming body-warm brass -- the remnants of a proper upbringing, I suppose. Yet when I heard him speak, it was as though I could hear the same looming doubts, the same guilts shading his sermon.

Once he caught my eye, he and his sister seemed to be a topic at every party I attended, every overheard conversation at a honey-den or coffee-shop. Her inheritance, their missionary work, his command of foreign language. The more I heard the same whispers, the more it nagged at me, and the more I had to find out -- more.

Soon, I was calling at their residence and worming my way into their confidence. It didn't hurt that the curate’s sister was devastating in her way, exactly the dark-haired and sloe-eyed beauty that always caught my eye. And, as I came to know the two of them better, I felt myself falling into an interest more genuine than I'd ever expected from my original whimsical decision to investigate the pair.

***  
Sappho I / Fet I

I labored under no misapprehensions about the purpose of my invitation to the Curate’s house tonight, late enough as to be almost dangerous, not to mention unfashionable -- and yet, I was skittish and flighty as a spooked messenger-bat all throughout supper and well into the poetry reading that had become somewhat of a tradition among the three of us. My appreciation of them both had grown markedly, and if I took single wrong step, made one misjudged comment, I would lose not only any hope of furthering the relationship but even my current standing in their eyes.

After a servant brought tea and the three of us were settled in a small, intimate room, the curate drew an aging and much-thumbed book from the shelves.

"I thought I might read an old favorite of mine today. This is a volume by a Russian named Afanasy Fet, written around the time of the Fall."

In the enclosed space of the room, confined with him and his sister, the sudden rolling wave of his voice came close to overwhelming me. He read the Russian as fluently as English, and though I only caught a word or two out of each poem, the pitch and timbre of his voice communicated as much as the foreign words. After each poem, he switched to English, familiar translations from nowhere other than his own mind, as far as I could tell.

With the last translation, I felt tears slip down my cheeks and tilted my head down to consider my gloves and the weave of my gown. At the best of times, the Curate's voice was evocative, the selections of poetry in the house exquisite; today, as I felt the burden of my overdue vengeance so keenly, and so stricken was I in the throes of my fascination, it was a wonder I lasted till the last poem. In the Neath, what hope was there of ever seeing the dawn anew?

Despite my tears, the Curate might perhaps have continued, had Agnes not let out a small cry and flown to my side. Burning with embarrassment, I watched the drape of her dress come into view against the thick carpeting.

"Dear heart," she murmured, a gentle hand drawing up my chin so that I saw her own tear-marked face, "I am grieved to think we have brought you to such a sorrowful state."

"Grieve not for me," I said, attempting a smile, "I am beset by my own troubles. Besides, it is not you, but that Russian."

The Curate's dark eyes gleamed with sympathy as he closed the book, one finger tucked between the pages to mark his place. "That is why I come back to his work, again and again. Such trenchant language, so evocative of our memories of the surface."

"But look--" his gaze slid away from me, returning to his sister. "Bidding thee rise, with outstretched hands, before thee Aphrodite stands. Let us see if we can perhaps ease some of your troubles for a time."

Agnes reached for me, drawing me up, and as I stood she tucked my hand into her elbow. We retired from the room, the Curate a shadow behind us in the shadows of the house.

***  
Baudelaire I

Even with candles, the dim light of the bedroom left much to imagination.

"If you wish to follow the hope we have excited in you, and all the fancies you profess..." The Curate trailed off, raising an eyebrow. His voice held the cadence of poetry, something I knew I'd heard or read before, but the specifics escaped me. In response, I drew closer to Agnes, clasping her hands in mine and meeting his gaze over her shoulder.

As I brought her hands up and kissed each fingertip, he worked on her laces, untying them and loosening them from bottom to top with the ease of long habit. Not a word came from any of us until he looked up, a flash of reflected candle-light in his eyes. I took over and unhooked the front of the bodice as Agnes breathed deeper.

Before me, the Curate gathered up handfuls of sheer chemise and drew it up and away in a slow sweep that my sight and the warm cande-light glow like a sunrise. My hand raised without thinking; before I could let it drop I felt strong fingers curl around my wrist and draw my hand up her ribs.

"You will find at the tips of two heavy breasts two slack bronze medallions," Agnes smiled at me and draped her arms around my shoulders, leaning into my touch with eyes half-closed.

"And under a smooth belly, soft as velvet, swarthy as the skin of a Buddha, a rich fleece, which truly is the sister of this huge head of hair." His voice dropped, roughened, his hands tangled in her dark hair, pulling it free of its pins and combs. My hands and eyes followed his direction without volition, down the skin that indeed was soft as velvet, until I reached that rich fleece.

At Agnes' soft gasp, the Curate backed away and circled the two of us until he stood behind me, the presence of him there urging me forward, toward the bed waiting for us.

"Compliant and curly," he murmured, drawing out the words as his hand slid down my arm to twine his fingers with mine, "its thickness equals black night. Night without stars."

***  
Sappho II

"You would go and admit that old harridan, at a time like this?" I bent a reproachful eye on Agnes; to be more precise, on the back of her head and the warm skin being concealed from my eye under layers of civilized clothing.

"This parting must be endured. Crises of the immortal soul cannot be scheduled or anticipated, and my brother bids me come to avert any perception of impropriety." As I made a rude noise, she smiled, alighting on the edge of the bed for a moment to brush a hand over my unruly hair and drop a kiss on my forehead.

"Go, and be happy, but remember -- you know well -- whom you leave shackled by love." My voice dry, I looked at her and gave my wrists a few sharp tugs. The yellow silk ties made no sound themselves, but a mutter of aging wood came from the headboard. One amused glance later and she was out the door, swinging it closed behind her.

***  
Baudelaire II

I let out a groan at the soft creak of the door. From behind and above my head, a sleep-roughened voice issued forth.

"Faithful and joyous Angel, come to revive our extinguished flames--" I cracked a smile against his sister's warm shoulder and reached around to splay a hand across his face.

"Names of the Masters, speak in _prose_. It’s too early for Baudelaire."

**Author's Note:**

> Poem references:
> 
> Whispering amid timid breathings,  
> Nightingale’s soft trill,  
> Silvery and rippling motion,  
> Of the drowsy rill,
> 
> Nighttime radiance, nighttime shadows,  
> Shadows’ endless dance,  
> Magic sequences transforming,  
> Love’s dear countenance,
> 
> In the little smokey cloudlets,  
> Rose’s purple hue,  
> Gleam of amber, tears, caresses,  
> Dawn, the dawn, anew! . .  
> \- Afanasy Fet
> 
> Thy form is lovely and thine eyes are honeyed,  
> O'er thy face the pale  
> Clear light of love lies like a veil.  
> Bidding thee rise,  
> With outstretched hands,  
> Before thee Aphrodite stands.  
> \- Sappho, “Thy Form is Lovely”
> 
> I love your elliptical eyebrows, my pale beauty,  
> From which darkness seems to flow;  
> Although so black, your eyes suggest to me  
> Thoughts in no way funereal.
> 
> Your eyes, in harmony with your black hair,  
> With your buoyant mane,  
> Your swooning eyes now tell me: "If you wish,  
> O lover of the plastic muse,
> 
> To follow the hope we have excited in you,  
> And all the fancies you profess,  
> You will be able to prove our truthfulness  
> From the navel to the buttocks;
> 
> You will find at the tips of two heavy breasts  
> Two slack bronze medallions,  
> And under a smooth belly, soft as velvet,  
> Swarthy as the skin of a Buddhist,
> 
> A rich fleece, which truly is the sister  
> Of this huge head of hair,  
> Compliant and curly, its thickness equals  
> Black night, night without stars!"  
> \- Charles Baudelaire, “The Promise of a Face”
> 
> I have had not one word from her
> 
> Frankly I wish I were dead.  
> When she left, she wept
> 
> a great deal; she said to  
> me, “This parting must be  
> endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly.”
> 
> I said, “Go, and be happy  
> but remember (you know  
> well) whom you leave shackled by love
> 
> “If you forget me, think  
> of our gifts to Aphrodite  
> and all the loveliness that we shared
> 
> “all the violet tiaras,  
> braided rosebuds, dill and  
> crocus twined around your young neck
> 
> “myrrh poured on your head  
> and on soft mats girls with  
> all that they most wished for beside them
> 
> “while no voices chanted  
> choruses without ours,  
> no woodlot bloomed in spring without song...”  
> \- Sappho, “No Word”
> 
> We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes,  
> Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves  
> Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us  
> Under more beautiful heavens.
> 
> Using their dying flames emulously,  
> Our two hearts will be two immense torches  
> Which will reflect their double light  
> In our two souls, those twin mirrors.
> 
> Some evening made of rose and of mystical blue  
> A single flash will pass between us  
> Like a long sob, charged with farewells;
> 
> And later an Angel, setting the doors ajar,  
> Faithful and joyous, will come to revive  
> The tarnished mirrors, the extinguished flames.  
> \- Charles Baudelaire, “The Death of Lovers”


End file.
